


A Study in Love

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Depressed Sherlock Holmes, Gay, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Self-Harm, Self-Harming Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock is a bean, Suicidal Sherlock, Teen Crush, Teen Romance, Teen Sherlock, Teenage Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Teenagers, Teenlock, m/m - Freeform, self harming!sherlock, spoilers in the tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:00:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23649601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A 15 year old in a class of intelligent seniors, Sherlock is constantly fighting to be taken seriously. But when his most dangerous secret is brought to light, he finds new love- and those keen on destroying it.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this is going to be really triggering for rape and self harm, this entire book will be actually but I'm going to put a summary of the triggering spots in the end notes. Stay safe comrades!~

"Mr Holmes, please take your seat. I do believe that would be 11 minutes of lost learning time?"

Sherlock kept his face stoic and sat down next to Jim. Sherlock tried not to judge the teacher too harshly, after all his daughter had come home from a party last night intoxicated, by the looks of things. A glance at the board told Sherlock all he needed to know about today's lesson; it was trivial and simple, even though the 15 year old detective was in the hardest class the school could offer.

Sherlock spared a glance to his right and noticed a new boy sitting up one row and 3 to the right. Better yet, he looked Sherlock's age. Perhaps someone who Sherlock actually had a possibility of understanding? Unlikely. Humanity was never his specialty.

Sociopath. That's what he called himself, wasn't it? As if. Forced sociopath if anything. He stopped his emotions. Emotions ruin a case. Emotions ruin a man. A glance at his arm would prove that.

Sherlock tried to discreetly build his mind palace for the rest of the class. Being inside his own head and just thinking was better than learning what he already knew.

Mercifully, the bell rang. Sherlock gathered his things and began walking to his next class, for what purpose he could not discern seeing as it would inevitably be equally worthless. Just as he was passing the janitors closet, however, he felt a body shove him inside.

On further glance it was Jim. Sherlock was scared of the boy, he seemed rather off the hook. And obsessed.

Jim smiled at him. "Hello Sherlock."

**And the trigger warning begins!**

Sherlock was opening his mouth when Jim grabbed a hold of his purple button up. Sherlock was shocked as he began unbuttoning it violently.

"Stop!" Sherlock was terrified of both Jim raping him and seeing his cuts.

Jim smirked a bit at Sherlock's protests. His silence was all he Jim to say to instill fear in Sherlock's heart, Jim had power over Sherlock. Helpless little Sherlock.

Jim started wriggling the shirt off of Sherlock. Soon, Jim got to his arms and saw the red marks all over them.

Jim stepped back a step. "What the fuck is this? Well I came here for a fuck so a fuck I'm going to get. Freak."

Sherlock let his words bounce off him. His body wasn't his. He floated above it, watching but it wasn't him. It couldn't be. He watched from above as Jim pulled down his pants. He watched as Jim forced his dick into Sherlock's mouth and then went lower. All the while tears fell down Sherlock's face.

Finally, it was over. Jim left his laying naked and in pain in the janitors closet. Sherlock stayed. He didn't know how long passed. Minutes? Hours? Eventually he got up. Sherlock didn't leave, however. Instead he reached into his pocket for a blade.

That's what it came to, in the end. Emotions he had turned off. Pain, pain he could feel. Sherlock could never numb himself to pain. Nor to the endorphins, or the momentary escape.

A slight grin appeared on Sherlock's face as he placed the blade on the most clean patch he could find.

Cut.

The endorphin rush was short lived. He needed more. More destruction. Sherlock brought the blade down onto his arm again and again. Anything to forget. He lost control for a moment.

Sherlock was brought back to the present when a different type of pain appeared. At second glance he realized that he had cut too deep. He had cut to fat. But Sherlock didn't let his heart speed up, no. He kept calm. Hospital wasn't an option... Thankfully, he kept a few butterfly bandages around with him. Over the butterfly he wrapped his arm in normal gauze. All bandaged up, ready to lie and face the world.

**No more TW! Yay!**

A bell rang. The dismissal bell. Sherlock went through the back entrance to get in Mycroft's car, and off they went.

"Brother, dear, you know I know what you've been up to. I'm too smart for you." Mycroft could faintly be seen grinning from the mirror.

Sherlock ignored his older brother and glanced out the window as the building's of London sped past him. Sherlock usually enjoyed taking the train to avoid interfacing with his brother, but sometimes it was unavoidable.

"Sherlock, what happened today and what's on your arm?"

Sherlock internally panicked, but he kept his poker face on to avoid outing himself. "What do you mean, brother?"

Mycroft gave the smallest of grins. This was what both of the Holmes enjoyed, inducing the hell out of eachother. "You're clutching it and you wince the smallest bit when you move it."

Sherlock continued to peer out the window nonchalantly. Hopefully doing so would get his brother off of him. "I fell and skidded my elbow."

Mycroft looked almost disappointed that he hadn't outed Sherlock's big secret. He gave a curt nod and Sherlock varied between looking outside and playing on his phone for the rest of the ride. Just another secret he couldn't tell his brother.


	2. The Game is On

As Sherlock walked to class the next day he knew something was off. The students would either snicker at him or glance at him and glance back too quickly. Sherlock hid his anxiety, what if they knew? Anything? Just a tiny bit of information, anything about his arms or virginity, could destroy him.

Just as this thought crossed his mind he saw a kid laughing at him and making a gesture. He mimed cutting his wrist sideways. "Attention." He then mimed cutting vertically. "Results."

Oh shit.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit.

They knew. How? Jim must have said. Fuck-

Sherlock walked up to the teacher stoically. "May I please be excused to the loo?"

The teacher nodded. He had most likely witnessed the gesture.

As soon as Sherlock was out of the class he broke down. He sat down next to the door and sighed deeply, his eyes starting to fill with the whispers of tears. He didn't care about those teens, not that much. But if Mycroft or Sherlock's parents knew it would disastrous.

As the creak of an opening door entered Sherlock's ears he quickly wiped away his tears and looked up at his visitor. It was the one who was his age, the new kid. He had hair that was on the border of brown and blond and a cute, round face. He was adorable.

The boy sat down next to him. Sherlock tensed. All of his reflexes told him to reject the boy but something about him made Sherlock up down his guard.

The boy turned his blue eyes to Sherlock. "They shouldn't be treating you like that. I'm sorry."

Sherlock habitually began deducing him. His phone fell out of his pocket. Most likely from his alcoholic sister. The engraving on the back revealed his name to be John Watson.

Sherlock felt the need to have John like him. He should probably tone the deducing down a bit. "Thank you, John."

John gave him a look. "How did you know my name?"

Sherlock cursed inside his mind, hiding it all away. "Your phone. It fell out of your pocket. The engraving- your sister, right? Probably an alcoholic, which may be in part due to her extreme anger issues. After all, not many people would drop a phone enough to dent the corner. But she's not the only one with anger issues. Your father- does he hit or yell? I know the symptoms of c-ptsd. Your paranoid, but also empathetic." Sherlock stopped his habitual inductions. He was scaring him away. Fuck.

John stared at him. Sherlock had fucked it all up.

John's face grew into an astonished smile, however. "T-That was amazing."

Sherlock widened his eyes slightly. "That's not what people normally say."

"What do they normally say?"

Sherlock smiled the slightest bit. "Piss off."

John laughed, and it was the most amazing sound Sherlock, Sherlock the musician, dancer, and violinist, had ever heard.

John and Sherlock chatted for hours. The conversation meandered from various things. All Sherlock knew is that John made him happy. Sherlock put down his wall for John. John had fixed the switch and turned emotions back on.

Just as the boys were debating whether 10 and Rose or 13 and Yaz were the best ship, the bell rung. Disappointment appeared subtly on both of their faces, even Sherlock forgot to hide it. He knew that talking to John for the rest of Sherlock's life would make him content.

Even when John wasn't in front of Sherlock, somehow believing 13 and Yaz was superior to 10 and Rose, he was on Sherlock's mind. Sherlock could be content in his mind palace, not hearing the jokes, and simply review memories of Sherlock and John. Even if the memories were not particularly copious they entertained him, and kept him from breaking down again like in class.

Just as Sherlock was preparing to leaving the school he heard the doctor who theme from his pocket. It was Mycroft. Who else.

"Brother, I need your help with an investigation."

Sherlock smiled at no one. "It's about time, wouldn't you say? What do you need help with, brother?"

Mycroft audibly signed into the phone. "There's been multiple reports of suicides. The victims all live in the same apartment complex."

"Sounds interesting. I'll do it."

Not 10 minutes later Sherlock stood at the entrance to the unattractive complex. As always, the police were there to greet the Holmes brothers. The new officers were even more out of their depth than usual, seeing as Lestrade and Donovan were new to the force and hadn't an idea what they were doing.

Sherlock spared the DI only a glance. "I need time, location, and method of each death."

Lestrade gave Mycroft a glare. "Who is this child?"

Mycroft smiled at him. "This is my brother Sherlock. Give him 24 hours, tops."

A paper was forced into Sherlock's hand. It was obvious the DI didn't want to give Sherlock the paper, but bowed to his brother's authority. Must know him.

Sherlock looked at the most recent death, from unit 220 B. He made his ascent towards the crime scene.

The room had an unsettling air about it. He crept forwards to find 3 cops surrounding a body.

Sherlock glanced at one in a doctor's outfit. "Definitely dead?"

The man nodded somberly.

Sherlock walked around her. Her posture was off in a way he couldn't quite place his finger on. Wait. There. She had been clutching her arm.

Sherlock was taken aback at the scene presented to him when he rolled up her sleeve. Raised, red wounds spelled a phrase.

The game is on

What did it mean? Was someone taunting him? The police? Sherlock turned towards the officers. "Have you examined the arms of every victim?"

At some point during his examination Lestrade had appeared. "Yes. This is the first one with these markings."

Sherlock nodded and continued his examination. She was wearing makeup, her hair was brushed, and she had her purse. She was preparing on going out. Almost certainly not suicide. Someone went through a lot of effort to make it look that way, however. She also had a rain coat next to her on the floor, the only misplaced thing in the room. She must have dropped it when she saw the killer. Sherlock could see it now- she's preparing for a date or other outing, it's about to rain. She grabs her raincoat. The killer presents himself. But how did she die? There weren't any marks on her wrist. No gun wound. Obviously no rope. So poisoning? Overdose was most likely, but we had no way of knowing until the autopsy came in.

Wait.

We had no way of knowing.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "Who told you this was suicide?"

Lestrade looked at him inquisitively. "Well one of my officers induced so based on the evidence at hand and the recent other mur-"

"Which officer?"

"Donovan."

Sherlock ran out of the room. Donovan knew something, he was sure of it. She claimed to have evidence. There was no evidence this wasn't murder, there was evidence to the contrary.

Sherlock looked Donovan in the face. "What makes you think it's suicide?"

The young officer didn't let her face reveal guilt. Clever. "The pattern of deaths and the evidence at ha-"

Sherlock gave her an icy death stare. Humans. So slow. "What evidence?"

Donovan hesitated. Sherlock gave a slight smile. Was it that easy?

Just as Sherlock was about to accept victory the officer dashed away.

"Shit! Get her!" Sherlock growled slightly. He let her get away. Again. He was stupid.

No. Don't think like that. Bad thoughts.

The officers were chasing Donovan halfheartedly. They probably didn't understand how dangerous she was. But also stupid, after all she had let it slip that it was suicide with no evidence. Rookie.

Sherlock startled internally as he felt breath on his neck. A male voice spoke behind him. "Sherlock? What's happening?"

Sherlock turned to face John Watson for the second time that day. "John? What are you doing here?"

John eyed the surrounding events warily. "I live here, and suddenly my neighbor's dead and there's cops surrounding my place!"

A glance at John made Sherlock's heart melt. "Don't worry, we think we caught the murderer. I did. Scotland Yard is truly useless."

Just as Watson was about to comment on the fact that a teenager was better at solving murders than Scotland Yard, Mycroft summoned Sherlock.

Sherlock trotted over to his older brother. "What is it?"

Mycroft smiled slightly nefariously at Sherlock. "I believe we have done everything we need, Sherlock. You may return to the house."

Sherlock glared at his older brother but knew arguing with the British government was almost always a lost call.

(TW for self harm and PTSD!)

Sherlock lied down on his bed that night. His thoughts were killing him. He kept seeing it, over and over. Stuck on repeat. Jim unbuttoning his shirt. Jim inside him. It was all in his head. Every last bit. It needed to shut up.

Sherlock growled, managing to keep the volume at one so the other Holmes didn't wake up. Sherlock's nails grasped desperately at his wrist. He needed to focus. Be in the moment. Pain was something he could grab onto. Pain pulled him back to land. Pain was his life boat.

Sherlock needed more. What could he use? A thumbtack. A thumbtack would work. Sherlock grabbed the thumbtack from his bedside table and placed it over the pale skin of his stomach. As he moved it fluidly over his stomach he could hear the quietest scratching sound.

Sherlock stayed like that for probably 30 minutes, just laying there grinning at the constant flow of endorphins. Something tangible. The combination of pain and endorphins distracted him, and he managed to fall asleep with the thumbtack still in his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Basically Sherlock gets raped by the shithead Jim Moriarty. Jim notices Sherlock's cuts. Sherlock then lays there for a while before cutting himself and going really deep on one. He uses a butterfly bandage.


End file.
